


listening to the beats of absence

by ggggnashville



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Pre Season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 08:52:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10434000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ggggnashville/pseuds/ggggnashville
Summary: In a desperate attempt to make John less sad, Sherlock takes him on a case outside of London.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back in September/October. The idea for this fic came six months before that but I hadn't actually written anything out. Truthfully, I barely remember writing it. I opened the word document and sort of skimmed it over and thought, why didn't I post this? It hardly follows any narrative, it jumps back and forth in time, and it's basically me rambling about how in love and how sad Sherlock is. I don't know much about this, but I do know it was the first thing I wrote after not being able to write prose for a long time and I was able to just have fun with it. Along those lines, it's not really edited. I just sort of found it and figured it should go out into the world. Do with it what you will. <3

 

 _In that moment of recognition he is not consumed by a rushing sensation of love—quite simply a door opens to a room that has never gone away.  The years apart were just years without one another._  
  
There are a few times Sherlock feels this with John.  When he sees him across the restaurant about to propose to a stranger, when he moves back into Baker Street after said marriage ends.  And when they meet.

 

  
It has been three days since John’s phone call.  
  
He had called and his voice had been quiet, slow, and so damnably hesitant.  
Three days since it has all ended.   
Three days since it has been worked out.  Handled.  Tucked away.   
  
Thinking “worked out, handled, tucked away” is acutely laughable.  None of those are the right words for what has occurred to the woman who claimed to be Mary Morstan, John’s wife.  
  
John’s wife, the American assassin.   
John’s wife, the liar who lied to John about the baby being his own.  
John’s wife, whose little brother Sherlock had killed in Russia three years previous, one Sebastian Moran.   
  
John’s wife, now in a prison cell, her child with her real father.   
And John, left with nothing.  
  
John who had called with his hesitant, slow, quiet voice and had asked to come home.  
In those words.   
John had said “Sherlock, can I come home?”  
  
The use of the word home had been so shocking that it had knocked Sherlock’s world off its axis.   
John had called Baker Street home.  
And Sherlock, who had spent months listening to the beats of absence, willing John to be with him again somehow while still telling himself that John deserved to be happy, had breathed “Yes” into the phone without a second thought.   
  
It’s all that Sherlock has wanted since his return from the dead and yet now, as it is about to happen, Sherlock is so unprepared his hands are shaking.  
  
John had said “I’ll bring my things over round noon on Friday” and here it is, noon on Friday, and Sherlock’s hands are shaking.  His mouth is dry and he can’t help that his heart is racing in such a sickly fashion.   
Sherlock doesn’t know what to expect.  After Sherlock shot Magnussen he had barely spoken to John.  He hadn’t been able to.  He had needed Mary to believe that Sherlock hadn’t a clue she was working for Moriarty, and that meant keeping John in the dark.  
  
But John had immediately wanted to return when it was all over.  Sherlock hadn’t anticipated it.  He had expected John to be angry.  He had expected John to grieve the loss of a child that was never his to begin with.  Instead he had asked Sherlock, so hesitantly, if he could come home.  As if the question ever needed asking.  As if the answer could ever be no.   
  
Sherlock sits in his chair and listens to his own breathing.  He listens to Mrs. Hudson baking in her kitchen, the radio turned up.  And then he listens to the slow but deliberate footsteps coming up the stairs.   
He listens until they stop and Sherlock turns towards the door.  
  
There is John, in his black jacket, his feet planted five inches apart, bag shoved over his shoulder, a box in his small hands.   
He gives Sherlock a glimpse of a smile.   
“Sorry this took so long,” John says.  
  
  
_

 

 

 

In the end, John doesn’t have many things to bring back to Baker Street.  He had a few boxes but it all feels too simple.  Sherlock helps him carry his boxes to the upstairs bedroom.  His chest feels tight the entire time, as if he is waiting for the punch line to the joke he is the butt of.   
John isn’t really looking him in the eye.  He has smiled and laughed a little when Sherlock had made a very stupid joke about John having to buy the milk again and John had sat on his bed and looked around his room with a soft smile on his face, as if pleased to be taking in his surroundings.  But he doesn’t look Sherlock in the eye.  He scratches the back of his neck and looks the other way.  Sherlock supposes that he just needs to adjust, that John will feel more relaxed in a couple of days.  Hopefully.   
  
After they have settled John in, John mentions ordering curry and Sherlock can’t help himself, he places the order immediately, ordering all of John’s favorites and John huffs out a laugh.  
“That’s way too much food for two people.”  
Sherlock only shrugs and adds two mango lassis to the order.  Sherlock has reason enough to celebrate.  John Watson is living at Baker Street again—permanently, and Sherlock has been wishing for this day for so long it hurts to think about.  
  
They eat with the telly on low.  If it wasn’t for the knot of worry in Sherlock’s stomach and the noticeable addition of grey to John’s hair, Sherlock would say that he could pretend like the last four years never happened.  He could pretend that it’s September of 2011 and there is still hope that John could reciprocate his feelings, the ones that have been occurring without consent for ages and make him want to sleep for years straight, they make him so exhausted.   
  
Sherlock cleans their plates when they finish and sits back down on the sofa.  His ankles almost overlap with John’s but he is careful not to let their bodies touch. There was a time when their bodies would touch easily, a shoulder against a shoulder, ankles overlapping, knees brushing, and Sherlock being completely anchored.  But now it’s not like that.     
He knows somehow that that would be too much.  Sherlock thinks that if he isn’t careful, John will leave again.   
  
Finally, Sherlock’s eyes catch John’s and they watch each other for a few tentative moments.  John’s eyes are blue as ever, and they look dark in the dimly lit room.  They look dark and suddenly so impossibly sad.  Sherlock can’t bring himself to look away but John breaks their contact.  
“I should be getting to bed,” John says, though it isn’t very late.  Sherlock doesn’t mention it, only nods and watches John walk away up the stairs.  
  
Sherlock stares at the telly without seeing for over an hour until his curiosity gets the better of him.  He has gone to John’s bedroom at night many times, and John has known it.  Years ago, when it was just Sherlock being Sherlock, lurking around, being ridiculous and mad as usual.  If Sherlock were to do it now, to stand outside John’s bedroom door, it would seem like an invasion.  But Sherlock can’t help it, he can’t stop thinking of John asleep in his bed, breathing softly and evenly under clean white sheets.  It isn’t an image that Sherlock has been able to see in months and not like this, not with Mary gone.  So Sherlock decides it doesn’t matter if this is an invasion, he’s crossed every border with John already.   
  
Sherlock slips his shoes off and climbs the stairs as quietly as he can, he doesn’t want to wake John.   
When he reaches John’s bedroom door, he stops.  It is open only an inch, and it is completely dark inside.   
At first Sherlock thinks it is silent and John is asleep but when he hears the noise coming from John, his heart stops.  
  
John is crying.  It is not loud but it is not quiet either.  Sherlock can tell from the sound that John’s body is wracking with sobs.   
Sherlock isn’t sure what he expected but it isn’t this. He knows he has walked in on something so private and he feels dirty for coming upstairs at all.   
  
Everything he has ever done has been for John’s happiness, but Sherlock can’t seem to get it right, as John is here, in his bed, riddled with the grief of all he has lost.   
  
Sherlock retreats down the stairs.   
He doesn’t know what he expected.   
  
  
__

 

 

 

When Sherlock sees John at breakfast the next morning John’s face looks exactly the same.  There is no trace of the sobs that came from him last night.  No tension in the shoulders, no dark bags under the eyes.  He looks shockingly unchanged and it doesn’t make sense.  Sherlock had expected something to be different, anything.  Perhaps John has gotten better at lying from having to live with Mary.   
“Sleep alright?” Sherlock asks, sipping his tea.  He wishes John had made the tea, it always tastes better when John makes it.  
“Fine, yeah.  Bit weird sleeping in that bed, but I did miss it.  I always liked that mattress,” John says.   
  
John’s hair is flat on one side and there is a line across his chin from the sheets.  Seeing him this way, still a bit groggy, still waking up, soft and rumpled, makes Sherlock’s heart flutter.  He wonders if Mary bought the robe that John is wearing, or if John picked it out himself.  He thinks if Mary had picked it then John wouldn’t still wear it but John has always been full of surprises.  He tries to think about something else, like the way John is giving him a half smile, almost smirking at him.  
  
“What is it?” John asks suddenly, eyes darting. “Have I got something on my face?”  
  
Sherlock realizes he’s been staring.  
  
“Nothing, sorry.  I didn’t really sleep last night.”  
“That’s not really anything new though,” John says.   
  
Sherlock sighs into his tea.   
“That’s fair.”  
  


 

_________

Sherlock can’t help how worried he is.  It’s been a month and John still won’t look him in the eye for longer than five seconds.  John is still going to bed earlier unless there’s a case, which Sherlock has been desperately trying to round up, bugging Lestrade constantly.  And they certainly don’t discuss Mary, though that part Sherlock supposes isn’t a surprise.  John still looks sad all the time.  He’ll get lost reading the paper or typing up a case.  It’s painful to watch because Sherlock has felt it too.  It feels hopeless, trying to get John to just stop being sad and Sherlock knows first-hand that that isn’t how it works.  No one just stops being sad.  It takes time.  It hurts but then it gets easier, over time.  Sherlock keeps thinking it will all just take time but he feels like he’s been waiting forever.  It’s frustrating and seems like nothing all at once because for John, Sherlock would wait forever.   
  
John has been asleep for over an hour, so Sherlock pulls out a cigarette and opens his bedroom window.  He’s tired, but unable to sleep.  He lights the cigarette and takes a long drag.  He’s been trying to stop smoking in 221B all-together but it’s difficult on nights like this.  He misses John so much and he’s upstairs in his bedroom, which makes it all the worse.  Sherlock wants to watch him sleep.  He wants to watch John laugh at bad telly and make bad puns at the criminals they chase.  He misses so much and it’s all his fault for leaving and making it go away.  Sherlock knew as soon as he’d jumped that it had been the wrong plan to go through with but there was nothing left to do about it.   
  
“Are you smoking?”   
  
Sherlock turns his head and sees John in the doorframe, in just a white t-shirt and pants, on his way into the bathroom.   
  
His stance is all strict army doctor, one hand pointing loosely to Sherlock, a hard line in between his eyebrows.  Sherlock can’t help but laugh.  John looks handsome.   
  
“No?” Sherlock replies, eyebrows raised.  
“When did this start again?  I thought you quit.  You can’t be smoking again.”  
  
During the months Sherlock spent planning John and Mary’s wedding, he had been living mainly off of cigarettes, coffee, and very little sleep.  Before John had asked him to be his best man, Sherlock had told himself that he was not going to help with the wedding.  He would attend, but only after an entire pack of cigarettes and probably a few glasses of scotch.  He would stay quiet and watch the ceremony and attend the reception briefly and then leave and not leave bed for a minimum of three days.  He would not be involved in the planning of the wedding at all unless specifically asked.  It had surprised him how easily he had fallen into planning the wedding with Mary.  He ended up doing much more than half the planning but he realized that it gave him a distraction, a way out.  Instead of exhausting himself with thoughts of what it would be like to watch John marry someone else, he had been able to push the wedding along and put all of the useless grief to good use.  So he’d picked out flowers and plate patterns and entrees and smoked cigarette after cigarette.  It was how the smoking had begun again, really.   
  
And here is John, back at Baker Street, begging him to quit again.  As if he hadn’t caused it entirely.   
  
“It seems to be a reoccurring problem,” Sherlock says simply, finding this is the best thing to say.  It’s not a lie, at least.  He can’t very well say when and why he picked the habit back up.   
“Well enjoy that now, because first thing tomorrow I’m going through the entire flat.  No more smoking, Sherlock.”  
“John--” Sherlock begins, but John gives him a stern look.  
“Absolutely not.  There’s no use arguing.  Those things are absolutely wretched for you.  I need you around you know,” John says, then heads into the bathroom.   
  
Sherlock takes another drag off the cigarette, then puts it out.  
  
_I need you around you know._  


 

__  
  
  
Sherlock has stopped playing the violin.  The violin, the one thing he had always been able to pour his heart into, is now something he fears.   
The violin triggers something inside of him that now only reminds him of his lowest points.  He had used the violin as a means of escape too often when John was away.  He had been forced to use the instrument for John and Mary’s wedding.  After he had poured his entire being into this instrument, letting the notes take over.  At times it was all he knew, the composing.  He would wake as if from a trance, face wet with tears, and then see that he had written a song.  This kept him from going over other edges that he has decided not to think about.  
  
Now, he hasn’t picked up the violin since John has returned.  John hasn’t said anything, but he has eyed the violin suspiciously, as if he expected it to get up and shriek in his face.  
  
Sherlock used to play for John all the time. He used to attempt to keep the nightmares away.  But he can’t do it now, he is too afraid that he will pick up the violin and he will begin to wail and collapse as soon as he does: reminded too quickly that he has always been unwanted.  He fears that if he picks up the violin to play for John he will crumble, and the façade he has worked so hard to keep up will be over: he will be forced to admit.  And John can’t know Sherlock loves him in this way.  In the way that most of the time feels as if nothing good could come from it.  In the way that Sherlock would rather cut himself into pieces than watch John suffer.  And John is still suffering.  The truth of John’s wife and child is still etched into every line of his face, in every silence, in every moment John will not look Sherlock in the eye.  The problem being that Sherlock is afraid it will never stop.   


 

 

_________

 

Sherlock’s been a complete idiot and his thigh has a long angry slash in it, and it’s been bleeding fairly rapidly.   
The case was supposed to be barely a four, something that in the past Sherlock wouldn’t have even left the house for, but he’d been so desperate for cases to keep John occupied that he took it anyway.  And now he’s been stabbed by the drunk angry soon to be ex-husband of their client.  
  
“We need to get you to an A&E,” John says as they stumble into Baker Street.  
“Don’t be stupid, it’s fine, I just need to stitch it up,” Sherlock says.  He knows he’s being silly but during his time away he’d dealt with much worse, and the idea of going to a very noisy and bright hospital sounds dreadful.  
“Sherlock, you can’t stitch that up yourself don’t be ridiculous,” John says, already trying to bend down to look at the wound.  
“No, you’re being ridiculous, I’ve stitched up far worse.”  
  
John looks up at him, a hardness suddenly apparent.  
“Since when?”  
“Since…my time away,” Sherlock replies, trying to keep it light.  
  
John licks his lips and sighs.  
“Well, you’ve got me to look after you again, so if anyone is going to stitch your leg up it’ll be me.  I’m your doctor remember?  If you’re going to be stubborn then go on into the bathroom.”  
  
Sherlock does as he’s told for once and limps up the stairs with John following closely behind.  He gets into the bathroom and takes off his trousers, then sits on the edge of the tub.  He feels over exposed but he lets John come in with the emergency kit.   
  
  
John’s hands are warm on Sherlock’s thigh, and John works quickly, trying to be efficient and minimize the pain.  He’s patched Sherlock up before, on several occasions and it was never awkward then but it feels close to awkward now.  John hasn’t been this close to him in ages and Sherlock is grateful that his breath is already shaky from the pain.   
John pointedly doesn’t look at Sherlock as he works, keeps his eyes fixed on the task at hand.  
  
John pours him a glass of scotch after.  The flat is dimly lit, only the desk lamp on and the bathroom light still left on.   
“Drink this, it’ll help,” John says.   
  
Sherlock takes a quick drink.  He hasn’t drank in quite some time, especially after his last overdose.  He thinks the last time he drank scotch was the stag night, which had been such a disaster in so many ways, Sherlock thinks it’s for the best he’s stayed away from alcohol.   
  
“Thank you.  For stitching me up.  It will certainly heal better with your work than if I had done it.”  
“Well of course,” John says, then gives Sherlock a small smile, quickly covered by his own glass of scotch.  “Cheers.”   


John has always done this.  Used alcohol as a way to be brave and talk about the things he doesn’t talk about.  
It’s the first time he’s said her name in the two months he’s been back at Baker Street.  Sherlock feels selfish, but he doesn’t want to hear this.  About how broken John is, and how he’s lost everything.

“Mary never did like it when I drank this shit,” John says. He smiles at Sherlock and takes another sip of his drink. He scoffs and shrugs. Sherlock says nothing.

_________

  


He’s either on his third glass of wine or his fourth, he can’t really remember.  Sherlock used to hate drinking, it made him feel too sloppy and he didn’t trust himself.  But with John it was fun.  He could enjoy himself because he trusted John.  He had made it through the stag night without doing anything completely life altering, and so he knew he’d be fine.   
  
“You know me so well,” John says, a grin plastered across his face.   
“I dunno,” Sherlock replies.  Maybe a one point he did.  He doesn’t know for sure now.   
“Oh please, you know me better than I know myself,” John replies.  He looks a bit more serious now and Sherlock knows that he means what he’s saying.  The idea that this could be true throws Sherlock off and he can feel himself giving John a confused look. 

 _I know John better than he knows himself_ Sherlock thinks to himself.  He looks around him, at the dinner that they ordered out and the bottle of wine at the center of the table that John had picked up out of the cupboard, where it had been sitting for years.  A bottle of red that, if Sherlock recalls correctly was purchased the day Irene Adler had showed up in his bed.  He wonders why John had pulled it out after all this time.   
  
“You don’t really believe that,” Sherlock says, all lidded eyes and heart pounding.  
“Of course I believe that.  You’re my best friend, Sherlock.”  
  
Sherlock can’t see how that is possible either, given the circumstances.  Mary is gone and perhaps never would have caused John such trouble if Sherlock had never bothered John in the first place.  John is without a doubt Sherlock’s best friend.  More than that, unrequited of course.  But this knowledge has always seemed wrong and strange, like the first time John told him that he was his best friend and asked him to be his best man.   
  
“Still, after everything?” Sherlock says, and can’t help but laugh a little.   
“Yes, even more so after everything.  None of that was your fault you know,” John replies.  He’s gone soft completely, his lips parted slightly.   
“I don’t understand it, I never have deserved your friendship.  But it’s good to know that.”  The statement feels selfish to say but there’s no point in lying.   
“That’s a crock of shit and you know it.  You’ve saved my life.  You’re amazing.”  
  
Sherlock wonders if John thinks he’s just playing it up to get complimented.  He hopes not.  He’s drunk now, he can tell.  He’s finished his most recent glass of wine.   
  
“Thank you,” he says quietly into the now empty glass, watching John from across the table.  He doesn’t know what to say, or how to react.  He only wants to kiss John and he can’t do that so he watches the kitchen table intently. 

 

_________

  
  
  
Sherlock has been through cycles of rehab. Endless cycles.  He is certain there are certain aspects of the addict in him that will never go away.  He’ll always crave some kind of high, he’s come to terms with this.  It’s just how he plays it out.  How he puts that energy to use.   
  
When Sherlock was small, before he ever knew about the joys and mercies of destroying his body with drugs, he would put his energy into creation.  He had always needed something to obsess over.  Science did just fine until it wasn’t enough. Cigarettes were fine until they weren’t enough. Helping solve crimes was fine until it wasn’t enough.  Coke was fine until it wasn’t enough.  Morphine was fine until it wasn’t enough.  Laying on shower floors unable to speak wasn’t necessarily fine but it happened often enough when Sherlock would go on a bender.  It wasn’t until rehab when someone asked him why he’d do it that he was forced to view the fact that he’d been trying to die for the past three years.  He wasn’t sure he had been aware of how sad he’d been always, it had just sort of grown into him and planted roots in some part of his bones.   
  
He learned in rehab that he’d always have addictions.  They would simply manifest in different ways.   
His counselors told him until he was a year sober he’d have to stay out of romantic relationships.  
  
At the time it had been humorous.  No one had ever loved Sherlock and no one would, as far as he could tell.  It hadn’t weighed on him in the slightest.   
  
But it ended up making all the difference when he met John ten months clean.   
  
The problem had been the after.  Once it had been a year Sherlock didn’t try to go back to that first night at Angelo’s.  He didn’t try to recreate the image of John looking at him like he wanted him.  He’d been too afraid.  And it had always been so stupid.  The difference fifty two days can make.   
  
He turned John down in a way that felt too easy. Sherlock had denied himself a million other tiny pleasures, what was one more. And besides, what would he have said?  
  
_I’m sorry, I can’t be with you this way right now. I might become wholly obsessed with you in a rather unhealthy way._  
  
The worst part was John found out he had been an addict shortly after.  The worst part was he became fucking obsessed anyway.    
And John had denied so gently:  
“No, I wasn’t.”  
  
Sherlock knew he had been and yet it hurt all the same.  The desire to run his fingers down John’s cheek and the press his mouth down against his felt like blood boiling and being insanely tired.  He hadn’t been kissed in so long.  Now it’s been longer but he can’t remember what it’s like anyway.   
  
__  
  
He finally is able to get his depression under control and be a person at 26.  He decides after months of being in a high blur, being homeless, being nothing, that he has had enough of cocaine.  Enough going out and doing whatever he can not to feel anything.  But being sober is boring when there’s nothing to distract him.  He falls off the wagon four more times before meeting John. It’s only by luck that John meets him when he’s sober a full year, that he can pretend to be a person who isn’t so terrible after all.  And that is the funniest thing.  John makes him want to be so much better than he is.  Less cigarettes, less manic episodes, someone who doesn’t have a quiet breakdown about not doing enough in a day, about misplacing specific beakers, about not getting a shower in. or having a shower, or about someone looking so familiar and not being able to place them.  It’s torture.  Someone who doesn’t want something to take the edge off at the end of the day and God does he know John would understand it better than anyone.  But he wants that part over and done with and tidied away.  That’s why it’s so heartbreaking every time he even thinks of using.  Once you’re an addict you’re always an addict, you don’t ever get to stop being one.  
  
__  
  
  
Sherlock’s love came in waves.  Most days he’d been able to look John in the eye and not fall over.  Other times it flung him sideways with the smallest touch.  John would sometimes squeeze the back of his neck when handing him tea or coffee, or when they were sitting in the dark together in the flat with the curtains drawn trying to solve a case going through pages of evidence.  On nights like those it was enough to make Sherlock giddy.  It was enough to make him feel sick.  
  
He’d learned long ago that while John held tightly to some idiotic masculine tendencies, he was fine with men in relationships together.  Sherlock knew that John wasn’t straight.  He knew John had probably slept with men before.  The thought made him ache in his gut but he was fairly certain it was true.   
  
But the years of being bullied about it.  The years he spent knowing he was gay during the early nineties, when the AIDS epidemic was taking place.  It was hard not to think terrible thoughts about his own desires.  John could just as easily turn on him.   
  
__  
  
  
  
He wonders a lot about what John did while he was away.  Besides falling in love, obviously.  That much was obvious.  
  
When Sherlock feels particularly morbid and self-indulgent he pretends that John really struggled when he thought he’d died.  He knows of course that John must have struggled a bit.  He knows he cried.  He knows that John had been angry.  But Sherlock likes to pretend with something more raw and tasteless.   
  
Maybe John wrote him letters, or talked to him before he fell asleep every night.  Sherlock did this with John, when he was away, so maybe that’s why he likes to imagine it.   
  
Sherlock can see so clearly John building up walls around himself, so afraid that like Sherlock, everyone else would leave.  He can see Mary taking apart those walls, inch by inch.  He can see Mary healing John, showing him that light emits from the darkness still.  He can see Mary watching John very carefully, slowly learning how best to comfort him.  Seeing the way his fist clenches when he’s upset, or the twitch in his cheek.  The hard line of his mouth and the way he swallows when he’s afraid. She must have been taking fucking notes from Sherlock.   
  
_I have loved him better I have loved him better I have loved him better I have loved him better._

 

 

__

 

John is still not himself.  He goes on cases, he cooks dinner, he laughs at bad telly and teases Sherlock about being dramatic.  But he’s still not himself. 

Sherlock thinks that maybe if he could get John out of London for a while, get him away from memories of Mary, of a life he never had, then maybe John would get some peace and his eyes wouldn’t look wrong and maybe he’d look at Sherlock again, really look.  Because he still won’t look him in the eye.  He won’t sit as close on the sofa, he won’t absent mindedly brush his fingers against Sherlock’s while handing him tea and Sherlock knows it must be because John hates him and he’s sad. 

So Sherlock looks for an excuse.  He texts Lestrade, saying he’ll take any cases outside of the city, preferably in the middle of nowhere.  The last time they took a case way out of the city was just before Sherlock had to go away, the case with the fake hound and Baskerville.  During that case was possibly when they had been the closest, when Sherlock had thought that maybe something more than friendship could have happened between them.  But that’s over now.  He just needs to get John out of London. 

Lestrade questions him about it but Sherlock won’t reply.  The last thing he wants is Lestrade knowing something is wrong with John.  He even asks Mycroft.  And Mycroft already knows what he’s trying to do and it’s wretched.   
  
_Leaving the city doesn’t change a person._ Mycroft had texted.  Sherlock hadn’t replied.   
  
He finally gets a case in Terling.  It’s barely a four but it will have to do.  Despite himself he’s solved the case before he even shows John but he pretends he hasn’t got a clue.   
  
Sherlock waves the printed out case in John’s face.  
  
“What is it?” John asks. “In Terling?  My Dad took us on vacation there once.  What the hell is going on in Terling?”   
“The owner of Pottocks Farm has been killed,” Sherlock says. He watches John look over the file and shake his head.

“Well wouldn’t it have been the daughter?  For the money?”  
  
John’s right.  HE’s always right.  But Sherlock is determined to get him out of London.  He’s not even looking at Sherlock as he asks, he’s still looking at the file and it’s the most frustrating thing that’s ever happened.   
  
“That’s what I thought.  But I think we’d better question his business partner and the mother too, just in case,” Sherlock says.  He figures he’s believable enough because John nods and hands him back the file.  
“When do we leave?”

 

__

 

 

He’s grabbing another coffee at six pm.  It’s his fifth cup of the day and he’s only known John four months but he ends up staring at the black trash bin at the coffee shop as some pop song played in the background, thinking _I’m in love with him._

There is nothing to be done about it.  Maybe it had happened when they first met.   
  
He’s always been sure about everything. So sure.  This is no different.  It might have happened when John got angry at the papers for being bigots.  It might have been the time John pulled Sherlock back by his shoulder before he could fall flat on his face, tripping over his own feet on the way out of the pub, too excited about the chase to take a moment.  He hadn’t usually been so clumsy. 

  
It probably had something to do with the fact that John was just as wild and reckless and intensely broken as Sherlock.  And because of this they understood and cared quickly for the other in a way which—Sherlock knew—no one else could or would. Ever.

The extremity of this knowledge all came to him while waiting for his coffee staring at a trash bin.  The desire to never leave John’s side enveloped him quietly.  Fine then.

He felt outside of his body.  Watching himself have one realization after another. One idea after the other. _I should go home and tell him.  I should go home and kiss him.  I should go home and fuck him.  I should go home and not do a bloody thing._

He doesn’t feel like he can breathe so he thinks damn the coffee and goes back outside into the fresh air and has a panic attack so violent that for a moment he thinks he will vomit all the biscuits Mrs. Hudson had insisted he eat that morning.   
He realizes he’s in the middle of the sidewalk and turns himself around until he finds an empty alley.  He wasn’t built for this. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought himself capable.  It was that he hadn’t thought himself fit.  He’s so far past logic that it takes him a full fifteen minutes to calm himself down.  He doesn’t even have any cigarettes.  He remembers the case.  He remembers that John is waiting for him at Bart’s.  He can pretend he’s okay if it comes down to it.   
  
__  
  


  
___ He stands in the shops with one object in each of his hands.  A tin of tomato soup and a bag of crisps in the other.  He can’t recall if he does in fact enjoy either one of these particular foods but he decides he must if he’s holding them. 

He isn’t sure how he got here though.  With the tin and the bag in each hand, it’s hard to recall how he ended up in the shops in the first place.  He can hear rain pounding on the roof.  Thunder.  It’s rained every day for the first half of November. 

Is there someone waiting for him at home?  Yes.  There is.  And last night that same man dropped a glass of beer onto their rug and then apologized quickly as if Sherlock had never made a mess in the flat.  He had apologized with such fervor and it hadn’t made much sense but John had given him a look with the apology.  With the beer.  With a shaky hand.  And that may have been the first time they had seen each other in quite some time.  Really watched each other.  They’d been hitting case after case and Irene had left them alone and John had apologized with a beer on the rug and a look.

Always frightened of getting what he always wanted Sherlock had simply said it was fine and played violin for John and now he’s holding a fucking tin of tomato soup and a bag of crisps and he can’t recall anything else.  Maybe he dissociated again like he did often in his early twenties.  Maybe he’s so in love that he can’t see where he’s going.

He’s fairly sure he never wanted the food from the shops anyway.  Did John ask for something? Even if he had Sherlock can’t imagine that he actually would have gone to get it.  He dumps both the tin and the bag on a nearby shelf and puts both hands in his coat pockets.  Phone, keys, wallet. He heads to the door, turns his collar up and walks into the rain.  He walks home and gets very wet.  He thinks about John scolding him and smiles at the thought.

When he gets back to Baker Street he feels like a drowned rat.  He leaves puddles of water on the stairs and hardly even acknowledges it.  He can’t help it.  He walks through the door and John is at the desk, typing away.  Being beautiful in a hideous sweater.  He is only wearing socks.  John had lit the fire and as Sherlock takes in the scene he realizes how lucky he is.  To have someone waiting for him at home.  Even if it isn’t necessarily in the way he wants John to be waiting.  Or maybe it is, given the look. 

“Sherlock?”  
  
John’s face is pure concern.   
  
“Hello,” Sherlock says, and realizes he’s shaking.  
“Jesus, why have you been walking around when it’s storming out?”  
  
John immediately moves toward the bathroom, presumably to get a towel.   
  
Sherlock removes his shoes and his shirt in the middle of the living room and doesn’t think about what being half naked should mean.  He’s cold.  He moves to the fireplace.  John hands him a towel and when Sherlock looks up to take it he can see that John is staring at him, soft and open and soon embarrassed most likely.   
  
“What happened?” John asks, moving his eyes over to Sherlock’s face.   
  
John sits next to him on the floor.  Their knees touch and Sherlock feels like he’s going to need to swallow all his organs back down.   
  
“I wanted to come home as quickly as possible, I didn’t really think about it.”  
  
He knows this is not enough of a statement, given who he is.  She’s Sherlock Holmes, he thinks about everything.  At least a little.   
He doesn’t say anything else.  John nods.  John doesn’t move.  Their knees touch for awhile.

 

 

  
__  


 

A small place on the outskirts of the big city.  In the fall when it’s gotten chilly and the leaves are beautiful.  He can imagine the cup of coffee in one hand, a notebook in front of John. The image is disastrously hopeful. He imagines John outside, journaling.  He hasn’t seen John journal in forever and he always knew it had been good for him.  A way to parse things out.  The healthiest way to parse things out anyway.  A much more organized and decent way.  And it made John happy, just to be collecting thoughts and in a small way, creating something.  In a small way, clearing his mind.  Seeing John happy hadn’t happened in so long.  Maybe he and John could even have dinner together and a smile would appear that was genuine that didn’t fade almost immediately, like John was remembering that he wasn’t allowed to be happy for even the briefest moment.  So Sherlock would suggest thin. Let the idea was over John and watch his face intently so he could know for sure. This was a good plan, he was sure.   
   


 

And the image does become reality.  They are sitting at a picnic table, early morning.  John hasn’t shaved in three days and doesn’t seem to notice.  He has tea, not coffee in his mug and the sun is out, the breeze blowing through his hair gently.  He looks healthy, and Sherlock can almost swear he sees the smallest smile forming on John’s mouth.  His hand is moving quickly over the page, his writing coming out with intent.  He was using his favorite pen.  He’s wearing a forest green sweater and it’s new, at least new to Sherlock.  For the first time he isn’t concerned about whether Mary bought it or not.  The leaves behind him are red, some yellow.  The table shakes just a little with the steady movement of John’s hand against his notebook.  He’s completely gone to the rest of the world.  Sherlock can’t help but stare.  It doesn’t matter, he’s been watching John for his entire life. 

Sherlock loves John so deeply in this moment that he almost gasps.  He looks too beautiful.  He looks too at peace.  The lines of his face have gone elsewhere, blended into something soft.  He looks confident again.  Sherlock hasn’t seen him look confident since a different lifetime.  The desire for a cigarettes leaves him.  He could call out to John here, and he would hear his voice coming from six years previous.  He could hear his own voice fucking begging for a second chance.  _Please, God, I love him so.  Please God, I want him to love me back what do I have to do what do I--_

It’s as if John senses his eyes suddenly.  He looks up, and a look half dazed half amused circles his face. 

“What?” John asks.  It’s the first time his hand has stopped. 

“Nothing,” Sherlock says, and rearranges the eggs on his plate that have gone completely cold over the last twenty minutes. 

John eases into a smile and it looks real and he doesn’t look away.  He snickers and nods at Sherlock, as if laughing under his breath at a secret joke only he knows about.  But Sherlock knows he’s laughing with him not at him.  John has never laughed at him. 

  
  
  
____ “You won’t even look at me.  You won’t look me in the eye.  If I get too close to you, you pull away.  I understand how you must hate me.  Everything terrible that has happened to you has happened because of me.  And I know how sad you are.  From the first night you got back. But I just wish that you could at least look at me,” Sherlock says.  He is pulling up clumps of grass with his bare hands.  They are cold against the dew but it’s fine.  If he doesn’t pull up the earth with his hands clenched into fists then he will cry, and he absolutely can’t do that.  During his time away he learned that the people of India pour water out onto the ground to stop their tears, if they are close to bursting.  He has no extra water, no extra energy with him now.  He almost hopes it will rain.   
  
“You heard that did you?  The first night I came back.”  
  
“Yes, I’m sorry.”  
  
Sherlock swallows, trying to gain some semblance of composure.   
  
“You haven’t the slightest idea why I’ve been so upset do you?” John asks.  He looks exhausted but composed, his mouth a hard line that Sherlock wants to kiss away.   
  
Then suddenly, John is laughing.  The lines at his eyes crinkle and he bursts into a laughter so big and so genuine that it startles Sherlock.   
  
“John?” Sherlock asks.  He wonders if he should be worried.  
“For a man who’s a genius you’ve been incredibly unobservant this time.  How can you not know?”  
“Not know what?”  
“I’m not sad because I lost Mary and a daughter that wasn’t even mine in the first place.  I’m not sad that I’m not living with a picket fence and dog and quiet.  I think you know me better than that.  I was never cut out for any of that, you and I both know.  You said it the night at Leicester Gardens.  The only reason that life was ever an option was because I thought you were dead.  Do you really not know, Sherlock?  Here, I thought you were tip toeing around me because you knew and didn’t want to offend me.  Jesus.”  
  
John trails off and rubs at the back of his neck.  
  
“You’re not sad about Mary?” Sherlock asks.  He sits up slowly.  He’s shaking now, and his nails are digging half-moon shapes into his palms.  It’s almost two in the morning and it’s cold and John isn’t sad because of Mary.  He’s been sad because of something else.   
“No, of course I’m not sad about Mary.  I felt nothing but relief when the whole ordeal was over.  When she was taken into custody I went home and slept for two days straight.  And then I called you.”  
  
“Then what’s been going on?  You can go back to Ella you know.  Or you could talk to me.  I know we haven’t normally done that but.  Well.”  
  
Sherlock wants to say that he’d do anything to make John stop being so sad but he stays quiet.  They’ve always understood each other in ways no one else has, and yet Sherlock has never been able to say the right thing to John.  It’s infuriating.   
  
“Because we’ve always been so good at that,” John says, then lets a little chuckle escape as he shakes his head.  
  
John turns to Sherlock and his eyes are tired.  John’s eyebrows pull together and he looks so nervous, like he’s waiting for Sherlock to say something else.  John sighs then licks his lips, and watches Sherlock carefully.  
  
“And here I thought I was obvious,” John whispers.  A breeze hits Sherlock and he shivers.  He’s afraid to hope but his heart is pounding anyway.  
“Not obvious to me,” Sherlock replies.  Again, John smiles.  That’s usually John’s line.  
“I’m in love with you Sherlock.  I’m sad because I’m in love with you and you will never feel that way about me.  I’ve been in love with you since the night at the pool and I won’t ever be able to not be in love with you.  That’s why I can’t look you in the eye.  I don’t believe that you didn’t know that.  Did you really just want me to say it?”  
  
Sherlock would laugh, if he could.  If he had the ability to do anything besides suck in air like a dying man and stare at John Watson.   
It takes Sherlock a full minute but he does catch up.  He blinks rapidly for a few moments and manages to shut his mouth.  
  
And then he does laugh.  He can’t help it.  He closes his eyes and laughs harder than he can remember until he’s crying too.  It’s a mess, all of it, but Sherlock has always been a mess.  He’s aware that John is watching him, waiting for him to become coherent again.   
  
“Sherlock?  I know you don’t mean it that way but it is sort of not good to laugh when someone tells you that.”  
  
Sherlock manages to stop laughing but he can’t seem to stop crying.   
  
“John that’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.  After everything…  I’m so in love with you sometimes it just feels like madness.  It’s made me sick.  It scares me, what I feel for you.”  
  
John looks very serious.  He breathes deeply and watches Sherlock, maybe waiting for the joke to land.   
  
“Say that again,” John says, with such a confused expression on his face it breaks Sherlock’s heart.  
  
“John I’m in love with you.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
  
John reaches over and takes Sherlock’s hand in his. 

Sherlock is shaking terribly, and he can’t seem to stop.  He wishes he could, that he could seem a little normal.   
  
“I didn’t say because that didn’t seem possible.  I don’t know…I didn’t know. I…”  
And Sherlock is done with words then, as they are all failing him.  He can’t seem to understand anything, so as always, he looks to John to know what to do.  The problem is, John doesn’t seem to know what to do either.  He is staring at Sherlock so intently it’s almost frightening but, it’s what Sherlock has always wanted, really.  John slides a hand up to cup Sherlock’s face.   
“Breathe,” John says.  He smiles at Sherlock.  “Just breathe.”  
  
He does so, and when his breathing is controlled he watches John and can think of only one thing to do. 

He leans over and kisses him, because it’s the only thing he can do.

 

 

 

Sherlock feels terrified, so while John falls asleep, he grabs trousers and shirt and goes out to the small patio outside, cigarettes in hand.  
It’s a bit too cold outside to go out without a coat but he doesn’t think about it.  He pulls out a cigarette and lights it.  He knows he shouldn’t be stressed out about anything right now.  He should be happy.  He should be watching John sleep, watching his chest move up and down.  He should be watching John being beautiful but instead he can’t seem to calm himself down.

John had told him he’s loved him since the beginning.  Had kissed him up and down.  Had left bruises around his neck that Sherlock is sure he will love looking at in the mirror later.  It’s everything he’s ever wanted. And he wants nothing more than to go back to bed and press his body to John’s but he’s so frightened that he can’t do either of those things. 

He takes a drag off the cigarette, fingers shaking.  It’s everything he’s wanted but he knows himself too well to be able to happy.  And that makes it worse.  If he doesn’t do the right thing in the next forty eight hours his entire life will be different.  If he screws this up, it will the ultimate in things he will never forgive himself for.  It’s _John_ , for God’s sake. There’s no messing this up.  He never thought he would get this much less have it and know what to do with it.  He takes another drag,  
  
“You’re awake,” John says from behind Sherlock.  He immediately knows John won’t like his smoking but there’s no point in hiding it.  
  
“Yes, sorry.  Couldn’t sleep.  Didn’t want to disturb you.”  
Sherlock wills his fucking hands to stop shaking but they won’t so he gives up on the feat.   
“Shocked I was able to fall asleep myself,” John says quietly, taking a seat in the chair opposite Sherlock.  The stars are still bright, and Sherlock has to admit it’s beautiful. 

“I don’t want to screw it up.”

“I know.  I don’t want to screw it up either.  But you’re not going to.”

“You absolutely cannot know that.  I’ve already screwed up so many things John, don’t tell me I’m not going to screw this up.”  He takes a drag, feels his hands shaking, shaking, shaking—“Stop.  Do you see how you are?  You’re so worked up over just the idea of something terrible happening and nothing has even happened.  Just from how worried you are, I can see how much you care.  How much you’ve always cared.  Sherlock haven’t we spent enough time worrying ourselves to death?  Don’t you think you deserve to be happy?”

 

His first instinct is to say no. 

 _No, absolutely not.  I don’t deserve anything._ You _, John,_ you _deserve happiness beyond measure.  Why would I deserve anything?_

But he knows he can’t say that at all.  He knows that isn’t the appropriate answer.  He knows he is supposed to say Yes.  He wishes he could say yes and mean it but he can’t and he is done lying to John. 

“I don’t know. I don’t think I deserve anything particularly.  I would love to have you and not worry and believe that it was going to be fine.  But I know me and I’ve never been very good at this.  I’ve hardly attempted it really.  All I know is, I want to be better for you.  I want to be better because of you.”

John doesn’t say anything for a moment.  He stares up at the sky and simply admires.  The brightly colored leaves are out there somewhere, falling and changing.  John lets out a sigh, then turns back to Sherlock.  The small back porch light gives Sherlock just enough light to see that John is smiling.

“I know.  Sometimes, it’s painful.  There were times where, because of you I wanted to drink myself to death.  Mostly when you were dead.  But I won’t lie, there were times when you came back to life that I wanted to do that too.  It made me crazy, not being near you.  I had always told myself that if the universe gave me another chance I wouldn’t waste another second.  But I wasted fucking years.  It didn’t make sense.  The fear was fucking nonsense because the worst had already happened.  You had died and I was still too afraid of losing you.  But I realized it wasn’t about you.  It was me.  I had apparently scared myself of getting exactly what I had always wanted.  Just, under the guise of losing you.  I was too afraid to love you, Sherlock.  Afraid to love you properly.  I could only…watch it become something ugly from afar.  I’m sorry, I don’t know what the hell was wrong with me.”

 

It’s too familiar.  It rips something open.  Sherlock feels like moaning.  He isn’t sure he is ready for everything just yet but he thinks if he doesn’t kiss John so hard it bruises that he will die.  So he does. He kisses him hard.  It feels correct.  His hands shake as he does so. 

 

 

He’s shocked he never said it out loud on accident.  There had been so many options.  So many times.  It could have just fallen out.  He supposes it was just luck it didn’t happen, good or bad, he’s unsure.  Imagine it falling out and John just saying it back, just saying it automatically like it was nothing.  Or, not saying anything at all.  The terror that would incite.  But Sherlock had gotten too good at his craft.  At lying.

 

What had there been to be afraid of?  Sherlock on the tube, listening to the sound of the train rattle and rush past underneath London.  The train is almost completely empty except for the couple on his left, in the corner.  The man has his hand on the woman’s thigh, rubbing his thumb absent mindedly.  She looks up at him from under her blond hair and smiles.  He smiles back and they look so content Sherlock has to turn away.  He gets off a stop early just so he doesn’t have to look at them, into the early morning light of London.

Content.  John in his dark blue robe, looking at him softly, asking him if he’s eaten.  Inspecting a bruise on his cheek from the Americans after Irene Adler.  Smiling at him, with him, for him.  So unlikely now.

 

__  
  
  


__

He’s had sex before of course.  But it was never any good, always when he was high.  He felt nauseous thinking about it for a moment then looked back at John in his blue robe.  His eyes didn’t leave Sherlock’s face, a refusal to hide from him.  Hide from himself.  The breeze hit then, and Sherlock hears the leaves.  It sounds beautiful, and John continues to look at him like he’s the fucking sun.  He feels less nauseous, and the longer he just lets himself experience being looked at in this particular way, he is finally able to not feel sick at all.  He doesn’t shake.  He is cared for so well, he realizes.  Being looked at this way lets him know nothing bad at all could happen, would happen. 

So he leans over.  His mouth lands against the side of John’s, somewhat uneven but it doesn’t matter. John makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and that gives Sherlock the confidence to bring his hand up around John’s waist.  He’s out of his chair now, almost tripping over his own feet.

John wraps a hand into Sherlock’s hair, the other cups the side of his face.  Sherlock moves his mouth down to John’s throat and sighs as he kisses there, all growing nerves easing slowly away.  He doesn’t question what has come over him.  It really doesn’t matter. 

“Please don’t stop,” John says, so quietly it’s almost missed but it’s heard and it only urges Sherlock forward.  He’s helpless in his ache.  Part of him hurts, part of him is happy.  He’s been cradling his self-control for so long.   

He thinks something inside snaps.  Somewhere inside one of his lower ribs, and it makes him gasp.  For a rather humiliating moment he thinks he will fall over, but John pulls him closer and holds him steady.

“All right?” John asks against his ear. 

“Yes.”

He realizes he’s at a rather ridiculous angle. 

Gentle weight above him, palm digging into the mattress.  John leans down and kisses him softly, then places his head down on his chest.  He gets the feeling that John is not quite hiding from him but perhaps taking a moment to be private within himself. 

Afterwards, when John has fallen asleep and Sherlock is lying awake, he can’t help himself and he goes out to have a cigarette.  This is his version of hiding a little, of being private within himself.  It’s terrifying and perfect because John had moved and touched and kissed exactly like Sherlock had thought he would, but also it was better because Sherlock never could have imagined half of it.  Not when it was so real.  So in front of him.  He smokes down to the filter and then lights another one.  He’s not so afraid of fucking it up anymore.  He’s only afraid of how calm he is. 

This time John doesn’t wake up and catch him, though Sherlock knows he smells like smoke no matter how much he has tried to cover it up.  He doesn’t know if he really needs to try to cover it up.  When he climbs back into bed John kisses his knuckles, makes a “hmmph” noise and then pulls him closer.  He noticed and has decided not to comment, for now. 

 

__  
  
The next morning they are at the table again.  Sherlock doesn’t feel as shy about watching John this time.  He watches with purpose as John parses together his thoughts and puts them on a page, maybe to investigate later, maybe just to have.  To know that this moment took place. 

John looks up again.  Today it is coffee, not tea.  He looks up at Sherlock and the leaves are almost the same color but quite.  John shaved.  He’s wearing the navy button up. 

John looks up from the notebook.  He looks at Sherlock across from the table.  He says his name. 

 

“Yes?” Sherlock says.  John’s eyes are set and Sherlock thinks the wind may have been knocked out of him. 

“I’m sorry I took so long.”

Of course, these were the words he said when he had arrived.  When he’d come back

It’s impossibly simple.  How can it be so simple?  Sherlock feels like crying.  He feels like crawling under the table and putting his knees in the damp grass, letting the moisture soak into the cloth and laying his head down on John’s lap.  He feels like sleeping there while the sun shines down and the leaves continue to fall.  He feels he wants to say the same thing and many other things and maybe nothing at all. 

“Me too,” he says quietly across the table.  He can feel the choke in his throat trying to come out but he won’t let it.  He isn’t sure that would be correct. 

John smiles at him and then looks back down and continues his writing.   
Sherlock wonders what he’s writing but doesn’t dare to even attempt a small glance down.  It would be wrong.  It doesn’t matter anyway.  John’s said enough. 

John is speaking to him.  He’s telling him everything.   


**Author's Note:**

> for more yelling follow me @ blairwiches.tumblr.com


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